


A Triumphant Goddess

by CaptainViolet



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Slight Canon Divergence, fwp which means feelings without plot, no idea where I am going with this, there is violence but it's not super gory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-10-04 19:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20476262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainViolet/pseuds/CaptainViolet
Summary: Fabien has to admit that Monsieur looks rather fine when angry and covered in blood. And Monsieur does like to be admired.





	1. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone dares to ridicule Monsieur wearing a dress. Fabien thinks that the man gets exactly what he deserves.

Monsieur makes his entrance on the arm of Chevalier, as is usual. Slightly less usual is that he is wearing a dress. Fabien stands too far away from the two to see Monsieur’s eyes, but he knows the colour of the dress matches the colour of the eyes. It is a bold choice of afternoon attire, but Monsieur has done this before, and Fabien finds it not a big distraction.

Someone cackles. Fabien’s eyes start to scan the crowd. Who would …? Who dares? Then the amusement seems to spread.

Between other courtiers, he sees Monsieur move towards the source of the laughter. His Highness’ voice cuts through it. “You mock me?”

There is a second of silence. “How can I not? You are an embarrassment to the king.”

Fabien slowly weaves through the crowd in their direction. He knows the voice.

“You mock me, you mock my brother, that makes you a traitor.”

“If I smite you, you will fall, which makes me a dead man.“ Fabien sees how the courtier turns away from Monsieur. _Smite? Smite Monsieur? The audacity!_ Just a few seconds, then Fabien is there, and he can silence the man.

But Monsieur is there first. “Coward!” Like a fury, he slaps the man who dared to ridicule him. The courtier shoves him, forcefully, and Monsieur hits him again and again. But the courtier can defend himself, he is strong, wraps his arm around Monsieur’s throat, choking His Highness.

Fabien knows he has to end this, right now, but then he sees the elegant dagger in Monsieur’s hand and relaxes. Monsieur will end it in his stead. Fabien is slightly irked that his Highness has to take care of the problem himself. He should be the one punishing the man. But he knows the courtier will learn his place now.

The blade slides into the courtier’s eye and the only thing Fabien feels is triumph, and a strange kind of pride. Then Monsieur rips a walking stick from another courtier’s hands and hits the man, who is now squealing and covering his eye. The determination on Monsieur’s face lets Fabien know he will hit him until he kills him. The sound the stick makes when it hits skin tells Fabien that it hurts. A satisfying sound. Monsieur kneels over the man to have better aim, to hit harder. Good.

Then the blood from the courtier splatters over Monsieur’s face. Fabien’s eyes widen, he stands transfixed, silent like the rest of the crowd. He dares not to breathe, so as not to disturb the moment. It is a glorious sight. Monsieur is a triumphant goddess. Brutal. Magnificent. The dark bloodstains on his pale dress only elevate its beauty. He is a lion showing a cockroach its place.

The Chevalier disturbs the triumph. “Stop! You've made your point.” Fabien emerges from his reverie. Is that embarrassment in the Chevalier’s voice? Disgust, even?

Monsieur pauses, bloodied stick in mid-air, breathing hard. Then he drops his stick, lets his arm sink to his side while his breath steadies slowly. But he does not move away. He keeps staring at the wounded man on the floor as if there is nothing else in the world. Fabien cannot read his expression, partly because there is blood mixing with the white make-up, and partly because Monsieur’s features actually seem unperturbed by the feast of violence he’s created.

It is silent, nobody moves, not even the Chevalier. Are they afraid that Monsieur will turn on them next?

Fabien realises it’s up to him to act. He clears his throat and steps closer. “Let us get you cleaned up, Monsieur.”

His Highness does not look up, and Fabien wonders if he’s even noticed him. Then, finally, he holds up a hand. Fabien automatically holds out his arm, without thinking, and Monsieur uses it to stand and steady himself.

A murmur goes through the crowd as they see the amount of blood on Monsieur’s dress. Or is it because he is at the arm of a mere minor noble? Only the Chevalier has ever lead Monsieur on his arm. Fabien tenses and his eyes flick to the Chevalier in question. De Lorraine gives a small nod to show he knows Fabien is not competition, is only attempting to end this scandalous moment as fast as possible, and Fabien walks towards the doors as fast as he can without running. Monsieur follows his lead without a word, as if he were still in a trance.

Silently they fly through the halls of Versailles, past servants struggling to suppress their gasps. Fabien wants to calm them, to tell them Monsieur is not injured but that he is a glorious victor, but there is no time. After what seems an eternity, they arrive in Monsieur’s rooms.

A gaggle of ridiculously handsome pages crowds them immediately, cooing over Monsieur, asking if their master is hurt.

“Of course not, it is merely the blood of an insolent courtier. You will need to clean him, quick”, Fabien tells one of them, and leads Monsieur to a chaiselongue.

As he lets go of the hand on his arm, his Highness finally looks up. “Stay”, he says. After a pause he looks at his servants. “You, get water and a cloth. And the others will need to go pick a new dress for me, with matching shoes and accessories.”

The pages spread into other rooms, and Monsieur turns away from Fabien. “Open it.”

“The window?”, Fabien blurts out.

“No, you idiot! The dress.” Monsieur sounds angry.

Fabien clears his throat again. He is no expert in undoing noble women’s dresses, or, in fact, any clothing that isn’t his own. “Yes, your Highness”, he mumbles, and begins to tug at a ribbon. The bow comes undone but nothing happens. It seems to have been merely decoration. _Is there any logic behind this?_ Fabien curses inwardly and randomly pulls at another bow. At last, the lacing becomes loose and he breathes a sigh of relief. His fingers quickly pull at the ribbons in the lacing.

But Monsieur gets impatient and pulls at the beaded sleeves so forcefully that some of the ribbons tear loudly. He doesn’t seem to care though; he pulls the dress to his hips and then gets up and steps out of it, in blatant disregard of Fabien’s presence. Monsieur throws the dress into a corner, now only in ladies’ undergarments and blood covered shoes. Then he sits back down, waiting for his servants.

Fabien does not know what to say or do in the meantime. The silence is deafening. Can he just excuse himself? There’s nothing to do here for him now.

Finally, a page returns with a large bowl of water. Another brings a small table to put the bowl on. Both seem to sense that Monsieur is in a bad mood and dash out of the room immediately after. _How can they just leave me here? I have other things to take care of. This isn’t even my job!_, Fabien thinks, now slightly disgruntled himself, and dabs a piece of cloth into the cool water.

He turns to Monsieur, who waits quietly, his face turned to Fabien. Fabien lifts the wet cloth to the bloodied brow – and hesitates. It seems like such a shame to remove the signs of the glorious fight. Beneath it, the skin will be alabaster, quite beautiful, yes, but nothing in comparison to what it is now. Images of furious Monsieur swinging the stick flash through his mind. _Perfection._ Fabien’s hand is trembling a little.

Someone coughs slightly.

They both turn their heads. A servant of the King stands at the door. “His Majesty requires your immediate presence, Monsieur.”

Fabien expects that Monsieur will at least get washed or dressed first, but his Highness merely curses and hastes out of the door, just as he is.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsieur returns from victory and is surprised that Fabien of all people finds his new found self-confidence intriguing.

The Chevalier awaits him, sat on a table in a most nonchalant way. “Welcome home.”

Completely ignoring Henriette, they share their first kiss in a long while. Monsieur only breaks it to hand over his surprise. “I brought you a gift. It's a book.”

“Is it now?” The Chevalier eyes the present with very little curiosity, but Monsieur cannot fault him. What is a mere book compared to him?

“I rescued it from a burning monastery. Sacred anthems written by chaste men. Naturally, I thought of you.”

“You know me so well.” A mischievous smile dances on the Chevalier’s lips, but he flicks through the pages with only little interest. “Someone scribbled in it, on every page.”

“Then give it back. You shall have no present.”

The Chevalier flicks the book at Henriette, finally acknowledging her presence. “Here. Have a psalm.”

They quickly retreat into Monsieur’s sleeping room, leaving Henriette behind with her book.

The Chevalier is shedding his coat. “I have waited months for this.”

_What drivel_, Monsieur thinks. “Lies. You wait for no one.” It is a statement, not an accusation; he could not care less about what his lover was up to while they were separated. As long as he is here, with him, _now_.

They both tumble on the bed, and the Chevalier pins Monsieur down, his breath already slightly ragged.

_Not this time_. Monsieur smirks and, with one quick motion, flips the Chevalier on his stomach, and keeps him down by lying on top of him. _My turn_. Oh, how he likes the feeling.

But it seems the Chevalier is less delighted with this turn of events. “What has gotten into you?”

Monsieur leans close to whisper in his ear, “That's the interesting thing about war. You learn so much about yourself. Know what I discovered, sweet Chevalier? When the enemy attacked, when the fighting was close and urgent, the blood flowing bright, in the glorious moments nearest my death, my heart thundered, and my breeches grew tight, because the sword inside them was hard and full. Can you imagine? Being in the middle of a battle with your prick about to burst? I never knew a Scotsman, but now I know what a sporran's really for.”

“Let me be! No”, the Chevalier pants, and with one quick motion manages to free himself. He scrambles off the bed, as if fleeing.

Monsieur holds out a hand, hopeful, but the Chevalier swats it away. Only now he can see the dishevelled hair and downright scared expression on his lover’s face. _Really? Such a small, tiny taste of your own medicine_, he thinks, _and you don’t like it._

The Chevalier hastes out of the room. Monsieur follows him outside, considering Henriette for a short moment, and then spots a servant girl. _You always let me know I was the more effeminate of us. Well, not anymore. I can be both feminine and masculine and you will have to live with it_. He whistles at the girl, and quite enjoys the Chevalier’s bewildered face as he ushers the servant inside his chambers.

\---

One only partly satisfying fuck and a bath later, he wanders the halls of Versailles, restless, hoping to find some peace and quiet, preferably far from the Chevalier. He doesn’t have to speak to anyone, and no one dares address him, but he can feel the curious glances. He has returned victorious and knows they all talk about him. He walks onto a balcony but finds it occupied by two ladies. Both flutter their eyelashes at him and half-hide their coy smiles behind fluttering fans, and with a hardly suppressed groan he turns on them. Is there _someone_ who does not wish to flatter him in this place? He considers that his brother probably doesn’t, but he is too angry to see him now. All that money flowing into Versailles could help the army, the state, but no, Louis has to build a whole huge palace just out of pride! If he confronts his brother now, there will be a fight, and he is not in the mood for another one just yet.

His restless steps finally lead him to Marchal’s dark cellar.

When he enters, Marchal turns from a few papers on his desk, stands, and bows his head. “Ah, Monsieur. You must be here for the man we found dead.”

He isn’t, but Marchal doesn’t have to know that. So he just shrugs.

The other hardly looks up, as if avoiding Monsieur’s eyes. “I’m afraid there is no news.”

Silence. Monsieur does not know what to say, seeing as there is nothing else to talk about. But it’s quiet if sombre here, and Marchal is not the kind of person to flutter eyelashes at him. He feels as if he has been breathless ever since his first battle, and now, finally, is beginning to calm down.

Marchal seems to be a bit overwhelmed with Monsieur’s muteness, inquiring eyes find his, then flick back to the floor, and finally rest on Monsieur’s shoes. “I, er, I brought the man to Mme Masson, who took his leg off, Monsieur.” Marchal’s hands dart behind his back, his gaze is still fixed on Monsieur’s shoes. “She said he should survive. But, ah, he is resting still, and she said not to, I mean, not to disturb him till he wakes.”

Monsieur tilts his head. _Why is he nervous?_ “They are spectacular, aren’t they.”

At that, Marchal looks up. “Excuse me?”

A wide smile spreads on his face. “My shoes.”

“Your shoes?”

“They seem to fascinate you to the point of distraction.”

“Ye- I mean, no.”

_Is that a blush?_ It’s too dark to tell. _He is hiding something. _Monsieur squints and steps closer. Marchal does not yield, holds his gaze.

And then it dawns on Monsieur. Every day, he is surrounded by people pretending to desire him, and they all want something in return. Money, a post, protection, or all of those together. Some actually mean it, but Monsieur can always tell when there is only an ulterior motive. By now, he is very good at sniffing out real desire.

And this, in Marchal’s eyes, is just that. He knows it is real, he can see it in the dark eyes, the flustered cheeks, the hitched breath.

_Him, of all people?_ He realises that the anger over his brother’s careless spending habits has not really calmed, that now it is turning into insult, and it boils up again. He grabs Marchal by the throat, not hard enough to do any harm, but enough to guide him, to push him against the wall.

_I am not some whore for people to lust over._ He remembers the Chevalier’s agitation before, and knows just what to say. He leans forward to breathe onto Marchal’s cheek, then whispers in his ear, “When I was in the midst of battle, under attack, when the fighting was at its most brutal, the blood flowing bright and quick, in the glorious moments nearest my death, my heart thundered, and my breeches grew tight, because the sword inside them was hard.” For good measure, he presses Marchal’s throat a little tighter, just ever so little, and revels in the resulting shiver.

He stands back a bit and bites his lip so as not to smirk too much. But Marchal’s expression has not changed.

Monsieur’s eyes widen. _Jesus Christ!_ _He likes it. That was not a shiver of fear. _He can feel the other man’s fast pulse under his hand, can hear the ragged breath. His eyes wander to the slightly parted lips. _I could just have him now, and think of the Chevalier. It might make me feel better._

But no. This place is terribly grim. He has only just had a bath. _Why am I even tempted?_ He lets out a huff and lets go of Marchal, then storms out, up, up into the golden world of Versailles, feeling far more restless than before.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fabien discovers that love can be painful.

In the upcoming days, Monsieur completely ignores him, and so Fabien, too, pretends that the strange meeting in the cellar has never taken place. Sometimes he even wonders if it has just been his imagination. A twisted, delicious figment of his imagination, that doesn’t do anything for his focus.

Therefore, he is glad for Béatrice de Clermont’s advances, because he needs an outlet for his built up yearnings, and because she is a woman who knows exactly what she wants, and it is far too easy, when the dark is only illuminated by a candle or two, for him to imagine the woman in the burgundy dress becoming a glorious, furious goddess in a dress that was once pale green and is now covered in the blood of all that were in her way.

Béatrice’s deceit is not unsurprising but rather unpleasant. In the end, he cares little for her fate.

After that, Claudine, wonderful Claudine with her quiet and capable hands, is quite something else. She, too, is a woman who knows what she wants, but she is kind to the core, and when they’re together he thinks only of her. They might have a future together; he likes to imagine a little cottage in the country, where she takes care of the ill and he assists her in that noble cause. There might even be a child or two, running around in high grass, why not? It is only a dream, he knows, and life is currently in the way, but it’s an achievable and sweet dream, and he knows he cannot keep dreaming of goddesses in pastel dresses forever.

And then it’s not life that’s in the way but death, and he feels lost, so lost, he’s never been more aware that he has a heart, because it hurts ever so much.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsieur is restless and distracted.

It’s late in the afternoon, and no doubt there is fun to be had at the salon. Instead, Monsieur is hunched over a dusty old book. He is intent on doing a thorough job on finding good men to settle in the colonies. But ever since the Chevalier has left the room, he can hardly focus. He runs a hand over his face. Things are different between them, and it’s his fault, because the last war has left him feeling ever so empty inside. He regrets his harsh words now, wonders if the Chevalier would be content to hold him for a while. _If only I knew what exactly it is that has changed between us._ His thoughts often flick to another, but that can’t be the problem, the Chevalier has never cared about other favourites of Monsieur as long as he remained his most favourite.

He stands, a restlessness filling him._ I need to do something. Not just sit and read names._ He decides to visit the Bastille to see the prisoners and pick those who look the healthiest. That ought to help him find some who were fit to sail to the colonies.

But it has to wait until tomorrow, as he’ll soon have to dine with the court. _And listen to idle chatter all evening._ He huffs. _I should probably get changed._ Before the war, the question of what to wear for dinner would have engaged him for a few hours. Now, having to get changed yet again seems like disruption of a perfectly fine afternoon.

He guides his steps towards his rooms. The young Marquis d’Effiat is draped over a fine chair, reading a book, no doubt a scandalous one that he found in Monsieur’s personal library.

“Where is Rafael?”, Monsieur asks.

Rafael Santiago de la Cruz is one of his most recent favourites, a guard of the Spanish envoy, and his taste in fashion is not quite as flashy as d’Effiat’s. The Spaniard will pick a perfectly admirable outfit for Monsieur to wear tonight, no doubt.

D’Effiat doesn’t look up from his book. “He’s away being questioned, should be back soon though.”

“Questioned?”

“The yearly thing, don’t you know, where all of us have to report on each other. Quite bothersome, if you ask me, and does absolutely nothing to improve security.” The Marquis sounds entirely bored.

Monsieur still doesn’t know what this is about. “Security?”

“Oui. He’ll be down in that torture cellar if you need him right now.”

Finally, the Franc drops. “He’s with Marchal?”

“Oui.”

“Who is asking him questions about … _things_ that happen here?”

“Sort of, I guess.”

Monsieur uses a few very foul curse words.

\---

He storms in, and sure enough, there is Marchal sitting opposite Rafael. A variety of notes are spread on the desk between the two. The Spaniard does not look uncomfortable, at least. Both glance up in surprise at his sudden entrance, then stand and bow slightly.

“What is this? Why are you questioning him?”, Monsieur hisses at Marchal.

“Merely to learn more about your guards’ attentiveness, Monsieur. It is my job to make sure they do theirs well, after all.”

He narrows his eye, then turns to Rafael. “Is that true?”

“Oui, Monsieur”, the young man whispers, not quite as at ease with Monsieur’s temper as Marchal.

“Leave, now! You do not need to answer any more questions.”

If Marchal has a different opinion, he does not voice it. Rafael does as he is told.

Once the door closes, Monsieur grabs Marchal by the collar and pushes him against the wall, mirroring their last encounter down here. Marchal’s eyes are dark and his nostrils are flaring. He does not protest in the slightest.

Monsieur smiles a little. _Good_. Then he forces his face to become serious again. “What. Did. You. Ask. Him?”

“As I said, I asked his opinion on the guards on the night shift.”

Monsieur huffs, tightening his grip on Marchal’s collar. “And what did he tell you?”

The Chief of Police stays calm. “That M Grenoud, when he has to stay up past three in the morning, tends to be nearly asleep on duty. That M Leblanc has a not so secret lover he likes to meet while he should be guarding your door instead. That M Charpentier is the most attentive, at least in M Santiago de la Cruz’ opinion.”

Monsieur tilts his head slightly. “Really? That is all you ask? His opinion on my guards?”

“It is my duty, Monsieur. I do this ever year, starting with the servants and favourites of the King and Queen, then moving to you and the Princess Palatine.”

“You are using him as a spy, aren’t you?”

“Only for that, Monsieur, and nothing of it is a secret. I must protect the Royal family, at all costs.”

He brings his face very close to Marchal’s. “So you did not ask what I do … with him?”

Marchal’s breath catches ever so slightly. “Non. That is none of my business.”

Cautious relief fills Monsieur. “Are you not curious? You like me, I know you do. Do you not wish to know what I do with the men in my bedroom?” He breathes softly on Marchal’s lips. “Does it not whet your appetite to hear of my conquests?”

He can’t tell if it’s the close proximity or his words, but now, finally, here is the reaction he’s been waiting for. A slight blush colours Marchal’s cheeks, his breathing becomes more ragged by the second, but he does not avoid Monsieur’s gaze. “Non.”

It sounds like Marchal really hasn’t asked Rafael about what happens in Monsieur’s bedroom, about all the times Monsieur has had him against a wall while thinking back on his and Marchal’s last encounter here. How he has made Rafael wear dark clothes, and never looks him in the eyes, for they are too soft.

Monsieur’s breath has also quickened at their proximity, at Marchal’s quiet but blatant desire. His heart races, yet his mind is at ease. One hand still presses Marchal firmly against the wall by the collar, even though he knows that the other would not move. He has imagined this often. _If I had him right now, I would not think of the Chevalier. _At that thought, he tilts his head slightly and closes the distance between their lips, not hesitant at all, and delights in how readily Marchal’s lips, warm and pliant, part for his. He shoves his tongue between them, forcefully, and the muffled moan of pleasure this evokes from the Chief of Police nearly make his knees give away. He closes his eyes, abandoning himself to the overwhelming feeling. He can feel Marchal gripping his hips, keeping him close, as if needing more. Monsieur gladly obliges, his body heating up, his lips hungrier and rougher this time. He weaves his free hand into Marchal’s cravat, it has a simple knot and comes undone easily. He runs his fingertips over the other’s collarbone, and the resulting low sigh nearly overpowers his senses again.

The sound of footfalls coming down the stairs make Monsieur pull his head away and step back. His mind is reeling, his breath ragged. He has never cared for anyone to see who he has an affair with. But not this time. He quickly wipes his lips. “Do not speak of this to anyone.”

Marchal nods once while catching his breath, eyes still dark.

D’Effiat enters without knocking. When he sees his master, he bows quickly.

“You’ve come for Marchal’s questioning, no doubt”, Monsieur says.

“Oui, Monsieur”, is the curt reply.

He knows that this is his cue to leave but he stays a moment longer, revelling in the way the Chief of Police still looks at him. He soon realises he finds it very difficult to keep a serious face, so he mutters “Carry on”, leaves the room without another word and has to keep himself from skipping up the stairs into the palace.


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsieur makes advances.

Fabien has a job to do, one that does not please him, but the King commands it and he does not question the King. Distressingly, the King’s brother seems to pursue other interests than that of the King, daring ones even, and Fabien just cannot be in two places at once. Of course, Monsieur manages to get himself into trouble and get hurt, and Fabien catches himself being far too worried than he should be. He wonders if it would be the same the other way round, if Monsieur were king and His Majesty the spare. And he is not sure he can answer honestly. _Taxes_, he reminds himself, _I am here to make sure everyone pays taxes. And to keep an eye on that suspicious Duchesse_. And Fabien always does as he is told.

Just like now, when he sees the Duchesse de Cassel trying to sneak away through the empty halls. It is dark, going towards midnight; there are a few courtiers awake still, enjoying games and drinks at the salon, but the Duchesse is not one of them. She frequently looks over her shoulder, and Fabien just knows in his gut that she is up to something suspicious. Should he follow her or stop her? She picks up her pace, and he decides to do the latter.

“Duchesse”, he calls out and steps out of the shadows.

She turns, slightly out of breath. Her expression nearly slips when she spots him. But she is good, she manages to maintain an innocent smile. “M Marchal. What a pleasure to meet you so unexpectedly.”

Her demeanour is entirely polite but he knows her mind must be reeling, trying to find an excuse as to why she’s here, in the middle of the night, and unaccompanied at that.

He tries not to smirk at her discomfort. “Unexpected, indeed. What are you trying to do, here, now?”

Her smile is like ice. “Why, I could not sleep and fancied a walk in the splendid gardens.”

“The gardens are the other way.”

“How observant of you. I must confess I am a little lost here when it’s dark. Versailles is so very big. Thank you for your help, sir. I shall go the other way then.”

Before Fabien can reply, one of the doors into the halls opens, and Monsieur steps out of the raucous noise that is the salon. His dress is pale grey and Fabien knows it suits his eyes just perfectly, even though there is little light here. His Highness spots them both, and Fabien bows his head while the Duchesse dips into a graceful curtsy. Two guards close the doors on the salon again, and the laughter and chatter becomes a background noise, to be easily ignored. Light steps move towards them. _Dieu_, Fabien thinks, as he does every time, he is in Monsieur’s proximity lately, _oh Dieu, donne-moi du force!_

“Marchal.”

He does not dare raise his gaze above Monsieur’s sparkling diamond collier. “Monsieur. How splendid to see you have recovered from your fall at the Bastille. You are most comely tonight. ”

“Oui.”

Fabien can see him sway ever so slightly. _The wine. He’s back to his old self._

“Come join the celebrations. They are such … fun.” Monsieur’s disinterested voice indicates otherwise.

“I, er, I fear I would feel rather out of place, Monsieur.”

There is a pause. “… Oui, I suppose you would. Will you at least accompany me to my rooms?”

Fabien feels his mouth go dry. A very straightforward pass. Monsieur makes them all the time. Just not towards the likes of Fabien. _DieuMèredeDieuettouslesSaints! _

The Duchesse turns her most innocent smile on Monsieur. “I believe Monsieur Marchal just wanted to show me the way to the gardens. I am all lost and he is such a gentleman.”

Cold pale eyes turn on the Duchesse, acknowledging her for the first time, and the words seem to dry up in her mouth.

Fabien does not know how long the silence lasts, it could have been hours, it could have been seconds, but it becomes unbearable. The Duchesse has offered a way out, but doesn’t she know that he could never even think of refusing? He clears his throat, and mumbles, “It would be an honour, Monsieur.”

Monsieur gently takes Fabien’s arm, slowly pulling him away from the young lady.

He bows his head towards Sophie, and barely has time to say “Au revoir, Duchesse” before Monsieur pulls him away quite forcibly. Fabien swallows and does his best to keep up_. Is that a triumphant smile? Mon Dieu!_ They walk in silence for a while.

Finally, “Who is she?”

“The Duchesse de Cassel.”

Monsieur makes a retching sound, and Fabien does not know whether it is the overuse of wine or the name that produces it.

“She is likely a spy, Monsieur”, he hastens to explain, “I do not trust her at all. I suspect her of poisoning her husband. “

A surprised laugh echoes through the wide halls. “Good for her.”

“I am not joking.”

“Oui. But killing de Cassel is not a crime, and you must not try and punish her for it.” Monsieur turns to look at Fabien with doe eyes. “Will you help me find the Duc de Sullun?”

The sudden change of subject leaves Fabien at a loss, or is it the eyes, his mind doesn’t seem to work properly, and, again, he knows he’s unable to refuse, so he nods.

The smile that rewards his answer might just stop his heart altogether. He notices that Monsieur walks quickly, and isn’t swaying anymore. “You are not drunk at all, are you.”

A quiet chuckle. “Non. Salons bore me these days. I thought this evening might take my mind off things. But I still feel quite empty inside.” Monsieur’s fingers gently squeeze Fabien’s arm. “Fabien, I am rather tired and still haven’t quite recovered from the attack. I fear I shall fall asleep the moment I touch the bed. Will you still come?”

A small part of his mind tells him that he should take the chance to find out what the Duchesse de Cassel is up to. But Monsieur’s use of his first name is overlapping all his rational thinking. “Bien sûr”, he simply replies.

Monsieur leads him through his rooms straight into the bedroom, where two pages and two favourites await. Monsieur heads straight to a dressing table and sits. He sends the pages to get nightshirts. D’Effiat and Santiago de la Cruz begin to undo Monsieur’s complicated hairdo.

Fabien stands a little lost, doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or, frankly, with all of himself.

Santiago de la Cruz must have noticed how uncomfortable Fabien feels because he waves him towards the dressing table. “Come, help us. We’ll show you how.”

In the next few moments, Fabien learns just how many pins are needed to keep a lady’s hairdo in place. With clumsy fingers he looks for them in Monsieur’s hair and pulls them out, and nobody seems to mind that it takes him three times as long as the others to remove one pin. Both of Monsieur’s favourites are chatting amiably as they work. They treat him as if he is one of them, and Fabien begins to relax.

“Does Monsieur wish us to leave?”, d’Effiat asks after they have freed Monsieur’s hair and turned it into the silky strands Fabien is so used to see.

“Non. You shall undo my dress, it takes Marchal far too long to do it.”

The Marquis chortles and does as he is told. Fabien thinks back on the first time when he had to deal with the lacing of Monsieur’s dress, and he silently agrees with him. And with his somewhat shaky hands, he’ll be twice as overwhelmed as last time.

Santiago de la Cruz bows slightly to Fabien. “I fear I cannot offer you any help in removing your clothes, as Monsieur always delights in doing so himself.”

“Oh, er, no problem”, he hastens to reply, and prays to God that he does not blush.

D’Effiat’s smirk tells him that God does not listen to his prayer.

It’s not like he needs assistance, as he always wears clothes that he can remove without the help of servants. He hates to depend on other people.

The pages bring the nightshirts and flick out of the room, but Fabien does not start to get undressed yet, not with this many men in the room. It’ll be strange enough to remove his clothes when it’s only Monsieur around. And although Monsieur has mentioned that he is tired, Fabien does wonder whether he’ll still wish to undress him himself, like his mignon mentioned. Best to stay just where he is, and do absolutely nothing but wait. He can clutch his own hands behind his back to steady them.

He averts his gaze from Monsieur. There are many layers under the pale dress, each more tempting than the one before, and Fabien feels as if the more layers Monsieur removes, the more sacred he becomes, and the more forbidden the sight of him is. In the end he focuses on a single white flower in the tapestry, and does not look away once, until Monsieur wears his nightshirt, and sends away his mignons.

“Get changed and come to bed”, Monsieur tells him as he pulls back the silken cover to climb in, and Fabien hastens to do so.

He turns away from his Highness as he undresses, very aware of his own entirely normal and unworthy body, his inelegant hair, and his still shaking hands. When he finally wears the nightshirt meant for him, he walks to the bed and climbs into it as silently as he can. The cover makes a quiet rustling noise as he spreads it up to his chin. He suppresses a content sigh. He has never slept in anything this soft!

Monsieur turns to slide an arm around Fabien’s waist, and then seems to fall asleep, at least he doesn’t move anymore, and his breathing is slow and quiet.

Fabien doesn’t dare to move. He won’t even blow out the last burning candle on the nightstand. It illuminates Monsieur’s face, and Fabien can’t believe that his avenging goddess could ever look so angelic and peaceful. He breathes as quietly as possible, and vows to stay awake as long as he can to watch over Monsieur’s sleep.

\---

Fabien wakes from a dreamless sleep. For a few seconds, he wonders why he is not in his own bed, why he is surrounded by splendid silk, and why there is intricate embroidery on his nightshirt. Then he remembers. Is he alone? He turns his head to find Monsieur watching him.

“Good morning”, Monsieur mumbles, and Fabien can feel a warm arm snake its way around his waist again.

He revels in the feeling and suppresses a content sigh. “Good morning, your Highness.”

There is warm breath on his neck. “I’m glad you’re finally awake.”

Fabien has no idea of the correct etiquette for this situation, but he cares little for it. “You seem to be very awake yourself, Monsieur.”

“Oui.” Monsieur places a soft kiss on the nape of his neck. “Did you think the morning would be as chaste as the night?”


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to continue this until the end of season 3. I sort of hate the canon ending and I wanted to give Fabien at least a bit of hope. Therefore, here comes chapter 6 of 9.

“You have somewhere to be?”

“Somewhere else.” He finds it impossible to sit still lately. Thoughts will always come, thoughts he needs to push out of his mind.

“I'm not trying to seduce you. I just hoped we could still talk to each other without rancour.”

He relaxes a little and sits back. Perhaps a conversation with the Chevalier might take his mind off things.

“So? How've you been?”

“Busy. You?”

“After a fashion. How's your love life?”

The very topic he’s hoped not to think about. “Solitary.”

“The true love that never lets a man down.”

Philippe can’t help but smile at that.

“You look like a man with an obsession though. I know you.”

“You mean the man in the iron mask. Yes.” He absentmindedly fingers the intricate woodwork of the bedframe, lost in thought. Then he looks up. Perhaps the Chevalier can be of some aid. “How do you fall out of love with someone?”

De Lorraine shrugs. “Going to war seems to do the trick for you. Why? Have you glimpsed behind the iron mask and found the man behind it divinely beautiful?”

This time, an actual laugh leaves his lips before he gets serious again. “Non. But I may have started to like the one person in Versailles that I should not like.”

De Lorraine sits up with a look of sudden interest. “What? The Queen?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. But the last thing Philippe wants is more inquiries of that sort. The Chevalier can be very persistent. He makes an attempt to evade further questioning. “Would _that_ not be justice? The King seduced my wife, so this time I should court his?”

The Chevalier is not diverted so easily. He chuckles. “You are not one to deny yourself, Philippe. If you like this man so much, just be with him in secret.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“He is a priest, then? Or someone who does not like you in return?”

“Non. But I put him in a difficult situation. My affections compromise him.”

The Chevalier lets out a frustrated sigh. “How can I help you when you do not explain the whole problem to me?”

Philippe purses his lips. He will not give in.

“All that I can tell you is that when I have a little crush I always follow my desires. They abate after a while, and life becomes normal until the next one comes along.”

“The solution is just … to wait?”

“And have some fun in the meantime.”

Philippe smiles slightly. “I actually might. Thank you.”

\---

“Fabien. A word?”

Fabien stands. Does he look tired? “Of course.”

“In private.”

Wordlessly, Fabien picks up a candleholder and leads him into a small room that seems to be his private library. Several shelves hold books on a plethora of subjects.

He waits until the door shuts close and they are alone in the small, dark room. “I wished to apologise for my recent lack of attention.”

“There is no need, your Highness. I am sure you must be very busy.”

Is he really forgiven so easily? Philippe smiles faintly and lifts a hand to Fabien’s cheek.

But Fabien turns away. “You do not have to pretend.”

“Pretend?”

“You are not the first to try. Many women have tried to charm me so that their secrets and intrigues might go undiscovered.”

Philippe stands frozen. “You think my affections insincere?”

“It cannot be a coincidence that you would approach me now, while you are trying to solve a riddle that you wish to keep a secret from the King.”

Suddenly, even breathing seems hard. “That’s – that’s not – I don’t …”

There is a long pause in which one thought chases another. He has hurt Fabien. How can he right this, when Fabien has taken it all the wrong way?

“I do like you. In fact, the extent of my emotions quite surprises me. I kept away because I thought I would compromise you. Perhaps it was stupid not to inform you of this.”

There is more silence.

“Please tell me you believe me.”

Fabien finally looks up, dark eyes unreadable; he moves his lips as if to say something but then remains quiet.

Philippe bites his lip to keep it from trembling. This has turned out to be the exact opposite of the situation he has imagined. Is there anything salvageable at all? He has to try. “Fine. You do not have to be complicit in this anymore. Go tell Louis, if you must. Of my murder, of the knife, of what I suspect of Bontemps. Just, please, don’t think I would trick you like this. I have always valued your honesty. I may not have told you all I should have, but I would never lie to you.”

Finally, Fabien responds. “Perhaps I was too quick to judge.”

Philippe dares a smile, and is relieved to see Fabien return it. “Can you forgive me?”

“It should be me who asks for your forgiveness, Your Highness.”


	7. 7

Fabien knocks, and when he hears the Duchesse’s reply, enters.

“Good afternoon.” She sits at a vanity and fixes a mourning veil to her hair. She remains seating but he senses that she seems a little uncertain about how to act when he’s here. Fabien absentmindedly lifts the lid of a box. Two seconds later he’s already forgotten its contents.

“I see you’re here on official duty. You’re searching for evidence.”

It’s true. So many riddles to solve, and so little time. He hesitates. Would the Duchesse hide anything on her body? His finger hovers over her neck. How much poison might a dress like hers hide? _Does it really matter?_ If she has murdered her husband, then the world is better for it. And if she has murdered the Queen, then punishing this young girl will not bring Her Majesty back. With the King’s readiness to have Fabien kill the Princess Eleanor, who knows what terrible fate awaits the Duchesse de Cassel if he, Fabien, were to officially uncover her crimes?

She notices that he has troubled thoughts, and stands to face him. “What is it?”

“I’m beginning to question all that I believe in, all I have done. Things I wish I’d never heard.”

She steps closer, to kiss him, he realises, and instinctively he takes a step back.

“You know I am not … free to do … anything like this.”

Her laugh surprises him. “Oh, please! Do you think me a fool? I don’t know what you two are up to, and I do not care, but _that_ is certainly not it.”

He knows it is good she believes this, it keeps the secret safe, but a part of him also hates her words, and the certainty with which they are said. He does not reply.

“You do not trust me?”

_Non. But you might still be useful._ “There is something that you might help me with.”

“And what is that?”

“As you may know, the King has conceived a certain fondness for the Princess Eleanor.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

“You’re close with the princess. His Majesty would like to see her again. Alone. Without the knowledge of her uncle.”

She frowns. “When and where?”

“Immediately before the funeral in the Orangerie.”

After a few seconds pass, she nods. “I will make sure she is there.”

“Thank you.” He nods back at her, and leaves.

\---

The tricky bit is to get past the guard in front of Mme de Maintenon’s chambers. The King has urged Fabien to make sure the guards there are doing their duty, so he thinks he can maybe make up a surprise inspection as an excuse to get past them. Luckily, the one standing guard now seems not to take pride in his responsibility. He leans against the wall, and the snoring indicates he is standing guard in dreamland instead.

This is bad for Mme de Maintenon, but good for Fabien. He sneaks past the sleeping man and round the next corner with ease. Silently, he pads at the tapestry until he finds the switch. A secret doorway opens and he steps into it, then quietly closes the door before uncovering the lantern he carries with him. Dim light illuminates a narrow passageway.

This is the first time he uses one of Versailles’ secrets for his own indulgence. But who would ever know or care? Certainly not the King. And if the King did disapprove of it, then Fabien would feel twice the satisfaction at doing it anyway.

He has been invited again, but told to be stealthier this time. He can do stealthy. He follows the passageway, his footfalls slow and soft. His steps lead him to the one thing that keeps him sane in Versailles. The one person he is still fully loyal to.


	8. 8

It is quite a lot to take in for Philippe. He has been right all along. He is illegitimate. His father lives and breathes, and is right here in Versailles. His father had to suffer for years. Louis is being an idiot, as usual.

Philippe sneaks away to see his father as often as he can. It pains him not to meet Fabien instead, but he feels like he has to make up for lost time. Plus, Louis has made him promise not to let the chief of security in on the family secret, and Philippe knows he will break that promise the minute he meets Fabien alone again. _He_ trusts Fabien. But, apparently, his brother doesn’t. He has never felt quite so desperate.

And then Louis talks of murder, and commits it with a straight face, and all thoughts of love are pushed from Philippe’s mind. He can hardly keep the overwhelming grief at bay, even less so when at the salon. Any attempt of overcoming it with wine and boys proves fruitless, and so do Liselotte’s attempts at solace.

Perhaps Saint Cloud will grant a moment of peace. He has his horse brought, but doesn’t tell Louis a thing, doesn’t even give Bontemps a warning. He needs space. Once the servants have brought it, he sends them away. He needs to be alone.

“You missed the ceremony.”

He turns in surprise to see Fabien’s dark eyes. Well. Maybe he doesn’t need to be _all_ alone. “Fabien.”

“I know why you can’t face your brother. It concerns the prisoner, doesn’t it.”

_I cannot tell him. I promised Louis._ “He’s dead now. Why do you care?” 

“I have devoted my life to your family. I need you to tell me the truth.”

He’s right. But not now, not when everything is too much. “Another time, Fabien.”

“The King is not who he claims to be, is he?”

Philippe takes a shaky breath. This hurts. He is awfully close to just telling Fabien the truth. “I told you. I will tell you another time what this was all about.”

Fabien doesn’t answer, just keeps staring.

His determination to leave wavers. Can he really stand to be so far from Fabien now? “Will you come to me tonight?”

“What?”

“Please, I need you. Stay the night and ask nothing of me. I cannot stand Versailles. If you don’t hold me tonight I will surely go mad here.”

“I need answers.”

Philippe lets out an unsteady breath. Saint Cloud it is. _Would Fabien come with me? _He swallows._ Not if I don’t tell him._ His resolve more an act than anything else, he climbs upon his horse. He rides off, eyes stinging, before he can break the promise he gave his brother.


	9. 9

Fabien is crouched down in his cell, leaning against the wall in boredom. His days consist of waiting. Waiting for food, even though it does not taste good. Waiting for sleep, even though it brings dreams of days past that he’d rather forget. There is nothing to do but think, and he does not like being alone with his thoughts. He has been solitary all his life, and now that solitude is forced upon him, he cannot stand it.

He can hear steps approaching. He does not recognise them as one of the prison guards’ but still he does not look up. Perhaps it is a new one. The steps halt before his cell. It is too early for lunch.

“Fabien.” The voice is hesitant.

He turns his head, slowly, and his chest almost hurts from the intense joy he feels at the sight of his visitor. He stands with haste and runs a hand through his hair to free it from some of the straw that is tangled in it. “Your Highness. You honour me.” His own voice sounds coarse. It has not been used lately.

Bright eyes dart over the stone floor and the heap of straw that constitutes Fabien’s mattress. “Your cell. I don’t like it.”

Fabien wants to say something along the lines of “Then leave”, but he swallows the words. He is surprised by the amount of bitterness still lingering inside him. He’d thought to be at peace with his past. Instead he says, “Why did you come here?”

Monsieur still seems to find his words rather offensive. His expression becomes a bit more guarded, and then he says, “I came to apologise.”

“Apologise?”

“It was I who drove you to this, didn’t I? You did it because I did not let you in on the secret of the man in the iron mask. I should have just told you.”

Fabien steps closer to the bars that separate them. “You did nothing. I was hurt by your silence, yes. But in the end, it was the King who drove me away from Versailles.”

“But … the attack on his life. Did I turn you against him? Against me?”

Fabien shrugs and then slumps his shoulders. His dark eyes find the bright ones opposite him. “I was not involved in that plot. I tried to stop them. But they would not listen.” He closes his eyes and raises a hand to rub his forehead, as if the gesture can make him forget the image of the dead rioters. Then he sighs and his eyes flutter open again. “I was hurt when you would not entrust me with your secret. But I am sure you had your reasons. It does not haunt me anymore.”

“Can you forgive me?”

“You are forgiven already.” What use is there in harbouring thoughts of retaliation when one has to live in a cell like this every day?

The smile this evokes is certainly worth the humility. “Will you come to Saint Cloud with me?”

He shakes his head in surprise. “I could not, however much I wanted. I am imprisoned.” He lifts his arms to indicate his drab surroundings.

“I will get you out.”

“The King will not let me go. I know too much, am too dangerous to be free. And even if he were to set me free, he would only do so if I returned to Versailles to do his bidding. I will not do that. I cannot serve the Sun King anymore.”

“I know that.” His Highness’ voice is very soft. “If - When I get you out, will you come live at Saint Cloud?”

Fabien takes a slow breath. There is no reasoning with him.

“It’s lovely. The meadows are green, the woods are lush and filled with animals.”

Perhaps Monsieur needs a dream to hold on to, a dream of Saint Cloud. What harm could it cause to play along? “I could be the game keeper?”

His Highness’ slender fingers grip two bars of the prison cell, and his whole face lights up. “Bien sûr! It is settled, then?”

How could he ever refuse? “Oui.”

\---

The guards come and escort him into a different cell. It is a bigger than his last one, and has a proper bed with a proper mattress. His bare feet welcome the carpets on the floor. A pile of books awaits him on a small table.

And, most importantly, the cell is clean. Fabien feels almost too dirty to step further into it. He stands in silence, his gaze wandering over his new surroundings. Of course he has always known that the Conciergerie has nice cells, those meant for the wealthy prisoners, but he has never even considered that he should belong into one of those.

The guards will not tell him who is responsible for his change of cells but Fabien already knows. He can still hear the voice in his head: _Your cell. I don’t like it. _Well, Fabien does not like that His Highness leaves a financial trail by paying for this new cell. And still. _It means he cares. _He bites his lip.

\---

Again, steps approach that he does not recognise. Fabien looks up from his book, his heart skipping a beat. _No, that’s two people_. _Stop expecting Monsieur_, he tells himself.

The key turns in his door, and he sees a prison guard he knows and a hooded priest. His first instinct is to send them both away. As if Fabien has ever cared for his own spiritual wellbeing. Still, the priest might be a good conversationalist, so he decides not to chase him away immediately. He has precious little company in prison. He closes his book.

But once the door closes behind the two men, the priest takes off his robe and throws it at the floor.

“What is going on?” Fabien stands and hesitates to put down the book. It could prove an improvised weapon if necessary.

“Put it on”, says the guard.

“The vestment?”

“Oui, Monsieur Duval.”

Duval? Fabien tilts his head. “I think you may be mistaken.”

“I am not. I have my orders.”

The false priest, meanwhile, inspects the cell but does not speak. He is not confused by any of this.

_An attempt to free me_, Fabien muses. _Let us hope it is carefully planned_. He picks up the robe and sips into it. Against his better judgement, his heartbeat accelerates. He has given up hope on ever getting out, but that dream of Saint Cloud might prove truer than expected. A smile appears on his lips. He hasn’t smiled in a long time.


End file.
